Breaking Bones and Treating Wounds
by ILikeMovies
Summary: A series of one-shots in which Steve gets badly injured or requires intensive treatment. (Basically, a bunch of whumpy extracts from stories I never completed because I lost interest after writing the hurt/comfort bits.)


_Hi guys. So, this probably won't be everyone's cup of tea purely because this is just one giant work of incoherent babbling with the sole purpose of writing/reading whump._

 _This is how it works: each chapter is a new scenario. These are basically incomplete works of mine that I lost interest in, meaning that I wrote the whump and then gave up, or that I hadn't really thought of much past the Steve whump._ _All of the chapters will contain Steve whump - mostly physical, but some emotional. Please, if you have any requests, leave a comment or private message me. I will give you credit in the chapter._

 _Enjoy the mindless whump that follows! (In other words, I'm really shit at figuring out complex plots so this is my only hope at semi-success.)_

 _ **Warning** : There will be swearing and detailed descriptions of violence and gore that some readers might find upsetting. Please read at your own discretion._

 _ **Disclaimer** : All characters belong to Marvel; I'm just borrowing them._

* * *

"Steve!" Natasha yelled, running toward him. He turned, deflecting a bullet with his shield effortlessly. They locked gazes and he nodded in silent understanding. Kneeling, he held his shield above his head and waited for Natasha to jump.

She did, pressing down on the shield, spinning in the air and gripping onto the balcony of the crumbling four-story building where the madman with a vendetta stood. He had on a silver metal suit that mimicked a gross cross between Ironman and The Hulk. With fire and smoke in the background, he seemed indestructible. He had a few friends; Natasha and Steve had killed most of them, but some of them had evaded the duo. Usually, Natasha wouldn't be phased by a few crazy men with a strange sense of entitlement, but all the men wore enhanced metal suits - some better than others, but suits nonetheless. They had managed to clear out the entire city, leaving burning trees and crumbled buildings and dead civilians in their paths.

The other Avengers were spread throughout the large city, but Natasha's communication with them had been cut off a long time ago by a particularly hard smack to the head. Steve's comm was working, but it was spotty at best and there was very little time to stop and have detailed discussions and catch-ups. She felt slightly at a loss without her comm, but Steve's presence provided her with a sense of security.

She hopped over the balcony railing (now just melted metal and chipped paint) silently, reaching the suited man before he had chance to turn around. She jumped, landing a hard kick to the man's head. The helmet protected him and jarred her leg, but her force was strong enough to knock him back, and one more kick to the chest sent him tumbling over the balcony and onto the ground. He landed on the cracked tar of what was once a main road. Steve reacted immediately, raising his scratched and bloodied shield and slamming it down as hard and fast as he could.

Apparently, it wasn't fast enough.

The man - flat against the ground -fired one of his built-in guns. At close range, the bullet tore through Steve's shoulder and ripped out the other side. His shoulder - now a mess of shattered bones and blood - went lax immediately and he cried out in pain and Natasha thought for a terrible moment that his moment of weakness would prove to be fatal, but his momentum still managed to drive the shield through the man's suit, severing the latter's neck. Blood and metal and sparks erupted in a blur, as the sound of panicked yelling tore through the air from a distance. Steve usually tried to avoid killing at any cost, but he and Natasha had learnt over time that the only way to stop these men and their suits was to kill them. Initially, they had tried to reason with the men, down them and debilitate them momentarily, but that had only resulted in Steve acquiring a few nasty cuts and a couple broken ribs, and Natasha barely avoiding being decapitated.

The shield stuck in the ground, surrounded by a fast-growing pool of blood that oozed steadily from the man's severed head. Steve stumbled backwards, gripping his shoulder and grimacing in agony. His broad shoulders were slumping more and more as the seconds wore on and blood drenched his suit. His knees suddenly went weak beneath him and he collapsed to the floor, barely managing to stop himself from hitting his head. Somewhere to the left, a terrified scream was cut short and replaced by the sound of gunshots.

Natasha watched helplessly, too far away to help as Steve slammed into the tar with a thud and a groan. Natasha's eyes widened in horror, and she effortlessly hopped over the railing, gripping the bricks of the destroyed building and scrambling to the ground below. Her shoes seemed to be permanently covered in fresh blood from another madman or unfortunate victim. Her fingers were a mess of grazes and bruises, but she hardly felt them. The once beautiful building she had just descended - remnants of white paint and decorative iron now long gone - creaked and groaned as a bomb went off somewhere in the distance. Smoke and raging fire - burning tires and bodies - made it almost impossible to see anything further than fifty feet away from her. She felt like a mouse trapped in a cage.

" _Steve_?" She gasped, sliding to the ground beside him. Her black uniform was ripped, grazed skin visible through the tears. Her red hair was knotted and matted with sweat and blood. Sweat dripped steadily from her face and onto the ground. The fire made it uncomfortably hot, but she had suffered far worse in the past. She knew Steve had, too; for God's sake, he had been frozen solid for over seventy years.

He was already clambering to his feet, his hand holding his shoulder as though letting it go would make it fall off. "I'm fine," he groaned through gritted teeth covered in blood. Natasha pretended not to notice. His uniform was quickly becoming soaked in blood, but he could ignore it for the time being; he had no choice. She had seen him shake off worse.

"Stark," Steve gasped into his earpiece, "the only way to stop them is to kill them."

He frowned, wavering slightly on his feet. Natasha gritted her teeth and tried to downplay the fact that it looked like he was weakening faster than she was used to. He had taken more than his fair share of severe hits (protected her from a few at the detriment of his own wellbeing), and they had been fighting for hours - almost twenty, if she managed to track the time correctly; it was impossible to guess the time by looking at the sun since the haze and dust was impossible to see through, but she had become pretty decent at keeping track over the years. She watched Steve as he listened to Tony intently, waiting for him to relay the message.

"Tony says that he knows," Steve grunted. He tested out his shoulder, but quickly ceased the effort as his face crumpled in pain and he turned an ugly shade of green. His sentences were slightly disjointed and breathless as he struggled to draw breath in through cracked ribs - courtesy of a car being thrown at Natasha; he had protected her with his body and deflected the car with his shield, but the mere impact had jarred him enough that his arms have way and his shield and car both impacted with him. "He also said that they're genetically enhanced."

"How does he know?" Natasha asked, glancing at the dead man on the ground beside her. It was easier to see him as a machine than as a man, despite the bright blood making that delusion difficult. "I mean, it's pretty fucking obvious, but how does he know for sure?"

"Didn't ask," Steve replied, squinting as he tried to look though the grimy air.

Natasha nodded: that could wait for later, when they were out of that mess. "Tell him you're hurt." Natasha demanded, placing a hand on the empty holster in her belt where her gun used to be.

"I can fight, Nat. I'm okay." His gray pallor and unsteady stance implied otherwise, but Natasha knew that he wouldn't lie. If he said that he could fight, then he could fight; he wouldn't put her life at risk by lying.

A blast whizzed through the air mere inches from Natasha's nose and she stumbled backwards in shock. Instinct kicked in and she turned just in time to see one of the other suited men firing his gun at her and Steve. His iron-clad arms were raised and aimed directly at them. She ducked and ran forward as Steve reached for his shield. She continued running forward, using the smoke and flames around her as cover. She hid behind the wreckage of a car, breathing steadily. She glanced at the body of a young girl - her pink dress stained red and her blonde hair covered in soot - as she heard the shield fly overhead. A loud smash and pained groan informed her that the man had been hit. She glanced up, saw his jets stuttering as his suit struggled to recover from the damage from the shield. The shield flew overhead once again and smashed the man in the face. He fired both of his guns at Steve and the ground around him, but every bullet missed and hit the sand. A rising smog of dust and sand from the missed gunshots provided much-needed cover for both Natasha and Steve, and she managed to jump up and onto the roof of the car. It screeched under her weight, but it didn't buckle as she lunged forward and managed to catch the suited man by surprise. She gripped him by the leg and swung with as much momentum as she could muster. The shock and force of it brought them both to the ground - the man's malfunctioning jets failing him. Steve appeared from the brown cloud and landed a hard, well-aimed kick to the man's head, stunning him as Natasha scrambled out of the way, breathless. She was clear just in time to avoid being swiped by Steve's shield as he brought it down on the man's neck.

Almost instantly another suited man burst through the flames. His jets propelled him forward so fast that he was parallel to the ground. Steve started for his shield but the man reached him first. The suited man wrapped a blue metal hand around Steve's neck, picked him up and dragged him high into the air, narrowly avoided the licking flames emanating from the remains of a motorbike. Steve struggled single-handedly, violently thrashing in the grip. Natasha ran forward and picked Steve's shield up, surprised at how light it was. She moved and swerved until she had a clear shot of the suited man, throwing the shield hard and fast. It hit its mark; the man jerked to the side and his grip loosened just enough for Steve to twist and thrash. Steve caught the shield as it deflected off of the man's grotesque suit and slammed it into the man's arm over and over until the metal buckled and the man released him. Steve fell to the ground, sputtering and gasping for air as his bleeding shoulder and damaged chest took the brunt of the impact. He looked close to passing out as Natasha reached him. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he was biting his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood. He was breathing erratically - a mixture of pain, blood loss, and only semi-functioning, bruised lungs.

"You're weak, Captain," the man said in an accent that Natasha couldn't quite place. He was right; Steve looked pathetic, attempting and failing to push himself up as he tried to breathe through gritted teeth, and hold himself together.

She screeched to a halt beside Steve and tore the shield from his arm as he struggled to get his bearings. She lifted it above them just in time to protect them from an onslaught of bullets. A few feet away, Natasha spotted the body of a woman, partially crushed by a fallen pillar. She shut her eyes and cursed the suited men; they deserved to die.

"You good, Cap?" Natasha asked, trying to distract herself, and trying even harder to sound jovial despite her thundering heart. Her voice could barely be heard over the roar of bullets. Around them, the tar road exploded as bullets drilled into the ground.

Steve groaned as he pushed himself his knees. He nodded, trembling as he held his injured arm against his chest. His eyes were hazy and bloodshot. The serum meant he healed a hell of a lot faster than the average man, but his broken chest had been hit over and over again, damaging it further and preventing any healing from occurring. Natasha just hoped that the internal effects of the injuries weren't too severe. The blood dripping from Steve's mouth indicated otherwise, but he kept fighting.

"Then let's do this." Natasha said once the bullets had stopped and Steve had caught his breath. She handed the shield back to Steve and reached for the nearest weapon: a large piece of concrete that had crumbled from one of the buildings. She chucked it at the suited man as he tried to blast flames at them - missing miserably. The hit caught his attention, and she yelled, "Hey, asshole!"

He turned to her and taunted, "You're still alive? Lucky."

"Well, if you're any indication of what's in store, then I have nothing to worry about." She raised her hands and cocked an eyebrow as she backed away. It was hard to keep her footing as she waded through a never-ending sea of debris. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Steve start running, stumbling at first until he found his feet. He was partially hidden by the smoke and was behind the suited man's back.

"What did you say?" The man screamed, firing his guns at her.

She expertly avoided the shots, flipping over and landing on her feet. She grabbed a lone brick and hurled it forward, hitting the man's built-in guns. His hand was thrown to the side and he yelled in frustration. She quickly jumped to the side and rolled behind what once could have been a house, or a store, or a cafe, but was now only a pile of bricks and wood. Natasha searched for Steve and found him / barely visible through the thick haze. His shield was on his back and he was expertly (albeit somewhat haltingly) climbing the crumbled ruins of a double-story house. He jumped and pulled his shield off of his back mid-air. He landed on the man's back and slammed the shield down so hard on the latter's head that the suit spluttered and failed all together as the systems clearly malfunctioned.

But the man was too smart. As they fell from the air, he landed a well-aimed elbow to Steve's left shoulder. Steve screamed, releasing his grip on both his shield and the man. He landed on his back so hard that Natasha heard the impact. She gasped and instinctively ran forward, narrowly avoiding being hit by one of the suited man's malfunctioning jets. He landed with a crash beside Steve. Steve - writhing in pain - recovered too slowly, and the man was on him, pressing down on his injured shoulder and chest with such force that the metal parts of the suit jolted closer together to withstand the pressure. The man laughed maniacally at Steve's agony. Steve struggled beneath the man, groaning in misery. His face was red with the pain and strain. The man let one hand maintain the grip on Steve's shoulder as his other curled into a large, metal fist and slammed over and over into Steve's chest. The hits were undeniably strong enough to break more ribs, to push the bones inwards on his bruised organs. Steve released a blood-curling scream and his entire body arched. Natasha was on auto-pilot, jumping up and wrapping her legs around the man's neck. The man fell back and fought her, but Natasha maintained her grip. Steve gasped and scrambled to his feet. Blood covered his face beneath his mask. He rushed forward, but he was disorientated and uncoordinated, his brain addled with pain.

"Hurry, Steve!" Natasha yelled, grunting as an elbow slammed into her stomach. The man in the suit was strong - stronger than she was, or Clint, or even Tony without the suit, but Steve was stronger. And the hit from his shield had sufficiently damaged the suit to give Natasha a momentary upper hand, but she was losing her strength and her grip quickly as the man grew more vicious in his struggles. For a frightening moment, she thought Steve wouldn't be able to finish the job, and her heart raced in anticipation as she watched him with pleading eyes.

Gathering what little strength he had left, Steve ran forward and swung his leg out, snapping the man's head so violently to the side that metal snapped and sparked. Then, he was on top of the man, his right hand gripping the blue metal mask and pulling. Steve's face grew red with strain and effort beneath the dirt and he howled. The mask started to rip away from the suit, exposing wires and delicate mechanisms; Steve's fingers tore and started to bleed, but he didn't seem to notice. Beneath the mask, the man was grimacing. Natasha frowned, stunned: the man was no older than twenty, his young face framed by gorgeous curls, but his eyes were bright red and bulging - constantly spinning and twitching. He looked possessed, scarier than anything Natasha had seen in a long, long time.

Steve seemed taken aback by the man's appearance, too, as he hesitated. Reluctantly, he tossed the mask aside and slammed his fist down over and over again into the man's face. Natasha only just heard the sound of the man's skull shattering above Steve's wild screams of disgust and fury. The struggling body went limp on top of her, and Steve stood quickly and staggered back, staring at the man's bloody remnants of a head in a mixture of anger and regret. He was shaking his head, lost in a world of his own.

Natasha climbed out from beneath the suited man and sighed in relief at the momentary calm. She glanced at Steve, expecting to see mirrored relief. Instead, he was gray, unsteady on his feet. He was losing blood quickly, his left shoulder an ungodly sight. His gaze had traveled slightly to the left, settling on the sight of a young man - the victim's body twisted at an unnatural angle, his arms wrapped around an infant. They were both dead, both covered in blood and dust and shards of glass.

Natasha shook her head and forced herself to look away. Steve's eyes were unfocused, distant. She waited for him to come back, waited until she couldn't wait anymore.

"Your shoulder," she said, weakly flicking her wrist to indicate what she was talking about, not that it was necessary.

He snapped back to reality, but the haze in his eyes remained. He glanced at his mess of a shoulder and grimaced. He could hardly stand upright.

"Put pressure on it," Natasha whispered, standing slowly. Adrenaline surged through her veins, masking her own mild aches and pains. She gripped his arm tightly, grounding him. His hazy eyes suddenly focused, and he regained his composure. She guided him to relative cover beneath a collapsed bridge, swooping down and collecting his discarded shield along the way. Easing him to the ground, she settled beside him. He locked gazes with her, frowning, but said nothing as Natasha neared him and hesitantly rested a hand on either side of his shoulder: one hand on his shattered shoulder blade, and the other on his shattered clavicle. He flinched and barely suppressed a pained grimace at the slight pressure.

"That man..." Steve began, his gaze locked on a point just over Natasha's shoulder.

"Which man?" Natasha asked absentmindedly, pulling little bits of concrete and tar out of Steve's shoulder.

"The one in the suit. He was so young." Steve gulped as though trying to hold back tears.

Natasha resisted the urge to look into his deep, blue eyes. She shrugged, placing her hands back on either side of his shoulder. It was surprising calm in their little alcove, Steve's shield protecting her back from whatever might come. "He was," she agreed, "but he killed too many people, Steve. He was a murderer." She forced the image of the little girl in the pink dress out of her mind.

Steve nodded, but it was unconvincing.

Natasha gulped, steadying herself. If it weren't for the adrenaline rush, she would probably hear the blood roaring in her ears, feel her heart pounding hard and fast in her chest.

"Get hold of Stark. Tell him you need to be evacuated."

"Comms are static."

Natasha nodded. _Shit_.

"This is going to hurt," she whispered in his ear, "but you can't scream. They can't find us like this." She wished that her gun hadn't been destroyed, that she didn't have to rely on her bare hands and nothing else to protect them.

She took another breath to ground herself, then she pressed down on the gnarly wounds. Steve went rigid beneath her touch, and she felt every ounce of him twitching as he resisted the urge to scream. He started trembling beneath her hands, his dirty face streaked with sweat and blood. He groaned, breathing so heavily that she was sure it hurt. If it weren't for the serum, he would have passed out a long time ago. If it weren't for the serum, he never would have gotten up after being shot, downed and defeated by the pain and shock. She had seen many bullet wounds in her lifetime, but none as bad as that one. The entrance wound was small enough - indicating a small caliber bullet - but the exit wound was a mess of torn skin and exposed bone fragments. It almost looked as though the bullet had exploded inside his shoulder; thinking about it, the possibility seemed likely.

Within minutes, the bleeding had slowed to a manageable rate. There was nothing they could do about the broken bones, though.

"Are you okay?" She asked, grimacing and shaking her head at her word choice. "I mean, can you fight?"

Steve took a shaky breath, pale beneath the dirt and bruises. His back was against the remnants of one of the pillars of the bridge. He used his legs to push himself up, but he was trembling so violently that the task seemed nearly impossible. Natasha watched, helpless. He managed to get to somewhat of an upright position, gripping his useless arm and wincing painfully. Natasha stood, stepping back and giving him space. Another bomb went off nearby and the sound of gunshots and screams echoed through the air. Natasha glanced over her shoulder at the ruins behind her. The sight was barely recognizable. She turned back to Steve and neared him, cupping his sweaty face in her hands. "Can you fight?" He would have to, whether he wanted to or not.

"I can fight." He said with conviction, enough so that it calmed Natasha.

She nodded and pivoted on her heels, running back into the flames and smoke. She caught a glimpse of herself in a large glass shard resting against a wall, and spun, thinking it was another suited man. She frowned and stumbled backwards when she realized that the bloody, dirty mess she saw was her own reflection. Shaking her head, she continued forward. She heard Steve pick up his shield and follow her.

A sudden flash of color in front of her - barely visible through the haze - stunned her. Her eyes were starting to water as she made her way through the collapsed buildings and crumbled roads. The smoke was getting heavier, making breathing difficult. She gasped, sluggish to react as she strained to see the color more clearly. Steve's shield whizzed forward and brought down whatever it was that had flashed in front of her. She raced toward it, Steve in hot pursuit. She almost tripped over the man in a metal suit like the others. The shield was stuck in his chest, blood oozing through the gaping hole.

"Nice hit," Natasha quipped, glancing at Steve.

He grunted a laugh and smiled bashfully at her as he gingerly reached for his shield. His movements were halting, but he was disguising his pain well enough.

Suddenly, Natasha's ears were ringing and she felt something warm coat her face as a bright flash exploded beside her. She hardly had time to register that a bomb had exploded mere feet from her and Steve. As she flew back, strong arms wrapped around her and cocooned her in their embrace. In the distance, she heard her name being called. She felt the arms around her absorb the brunt of the impact as they slammed into something hard. She realized all too late that the arms were Steve's. He had his shield in front of them, protecting them both from the blast. His arms and legs held her in fetal position as bricks and concrete caved in on them. Steve's body protected her as the ruined wall they slammed into crumbled from the force.

It seemed like forever before the never-ending avalanche stopped. She waited for Steve to get up, but he didn't. Through the brown and red haze, she could see another suited man approach them. She pressed her hands against Steve's chest and wriggled out from beneath him. He was dead weight - unconscious. His helmet had been blown off in the blast and his face was covered in fresh blood. His suit was ruined; strips of blue and white and red floated through the air amongst the other debris. "Steve!" Natasha yelled, but she could hardly hear herself over the ringing in her ears. Her eyes stung viciously and her ears hurt and her head pounded and her chest ached as her abused lungs heaved. She wanted to wrap herself around him, to protect him and get him to safety, but that would have to wait.

She squinted, searching for the approaching man. She spotted him - or what could've been him: a flash of gold amongst the dust and fire. She lurched forward and grabbed Steve's shield, flinging it with all her might. She was weakening, tiring, but the shield still glided through the air and hit its mark hard enough to take it down. The shield returned and she flung it again, hitting the man on his way down. His neck snapped back so hard that she was sure it was broken. But, he got back up and approached her. He had disarmed his jets and was walking, his suit shaking the ground with each step. Her eyes widened in rising panic. "Fuck," she whispered. She chucked the shield again, praying it would take the man down as it smashed into his shoulder. It weakened him, making his movements halting and clumsy, but he still approached. She feared she was too exhausted to beat him in hand-to-hand combat, but she would try her fucking hardest.

Soon enough, he was near enough for Natasha to risk approaching him. She ran at him, Steve's shield protecting her face and torso as bullets tore through the air at the shield. The force was almost strong enough to down her, but she forced herself to keep going, to save Steve. When she was close enough, she swung the shield as hard as she could and she heard a crack and a smash and the suited man flew back in a blur of gold. She chased him and found him struggling to all fours on the ground. The heat and smog surrounding her was getting worse, making it almost impossible for her to function. The shield had done enough damage to his suit to make its mechanisms useless. Smiling bloodily, relieved by his weakness, Natasha brought the shield down one last time and crushed his head - metal and blood and bone exploding beneath the force. She stumbled back, breathless but surprisingly empowered by the feel of the shield in her trembling hands.

She stared at the bloodied mess in front of her for a moment, collecting her thoughts. The sound of more gunfire in the distance and a loud crash grounded her and she gulped. "Steve," she whispered, gripping the shield tighter. She struggled to see as the world around her tilted and twisted, but she made it back to Steve.

He was stirring, struggling to turn himself onto his back. Natasha couldn't see him clearly through the haze; she needed to get them both out of the worst of it before her lungs seized and he succumbed to his injuries. They needed to find cover somewhere with less smoke and fire.

He managed to roll onto his back with an agonized groan and his face twisted into a heart-wrenching grimace. Natasha dropped to her knees beside him, involuntary tears streaming down her face as she struggled to focus. Dust and debris in the air were destroying her eyes. "Steve," she whispered, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb.

He grunted and frowned, but his eyes remained closed.

Natasha tried to look him over for injuries, but she couldn't see anything clearly. She was panicking: Steve was too injured and her vision and hearing was too impaired; they were easy targets out in the open.

"Steve," she said again. She wasn't sure if she was screaming: it felt like it but she couldn't hear herself. She gently shook him, unconcerned by the possibility of worsening injuries; the serum would heal any minor damage she caused to his already severely injured body - she hoped.

That time, his eyes fluttered open. His one eye was almost swollen shut, and the other was drowning in blood from a large gash above his eyebrow. He searched the air above his face frantically, his breathing erratic. Natasha leaned over him and grabbed his cheeks in her blood-covered hands. His gaze landed on her but didn't - or couldn't - quite focus. "Steve, you need to get up." She said, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

Her lungs were burning so hectically that it felt like each breath she drew in was lucky. He blindly reached for her with his right hand and fumbled with the torn sleeve of her suit. His hands were trembling, unsteady and uncertain. She dropped a hand from his face and grasped his hand tightly, squeezing in a vain attempt to get him to focus.

"Nat?" He whispered, his voice strained and croaky. She could see his lips move, but couldn't hear him. Natasha gulped: he looked confused, which meant internal injuries were now of far more concern than what she could see. That possibility only emphasized her urgency to get him to a safer location.

"Yeah, Steve," she said, trying to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "We need to go. _Now_. Get up."

He nodded, shutting his eyes. He gulped loudly. He ripped his hand from Natasha's and fumbled with her arm until he had his hand settled on her shoulder. He gripped her so tightly that it hurt, but she ignored it. She kept his shield on her one arm, and wrapped her other one around his waist. Beneath her grip, she could feel heat radiating off of his trembling body. She pretended not to notice.

"Okay, on three. Okay?" She said, bracing herself. She pushed herself up so that she was on one knee and had her other foot resting against a slab of concrete. She pressed the shield against the remnants of the crumbled wall and wriggled to ensure that she was stable. "Okay," she huffed, "one, two... three!"

With an almighty heave, she pulled Steve to his feet. He forced himself up, his left arm cradled against his chest. He yelled, almost losing consciousness. But they got him up - together. Once he was standing, they rested against each other, Natasha catching her breath and Steve fighting the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

"Good, _good_." Natasha gasped breathlessly, though she wasn't sure whether she was saying it to motivate herself or Steve.

Seconds passed, and a particularly close explosion snapped Natasha back to reality. She pulled away from Steve, but kept her one hand firmly tucked under his one armpit. He swayed, but remained upright. She glanced down, disgusted and alarmed by the dark blood coating her torso; it wasn't hers. She blinked a few times, uncertain as to whether she was seeing properly through the grime in her stinging eyes.

"Steve, we have to get you somewhere safer," she said, the ringing in her ears making her own voice nearly inaudible. She needed to get somewhere else before she could even fathom the idea of finding the injury causing Steve to bleed so much. She needed to get somewhere else before she collapsed and her throbbing head and pounding heart overwhelmed her.

She slowly lifted his uninjured arm and looped it over her slight shoulders. Steve grunted and his lips pursed in an attempt to suppress a moan. Natasha watched him, stared at his face - taut with agony and fatigue. She broke her gaze and turned her head away, forcing herself to ignore her emotions. She could feel sad later; she needed to do what she was trained to do: survive.

Their first few steps were wobbly and agonizingly slow. They had to stop almost immediately for Steve to vomit and heave, but he quickly regained his composure. They kept tripping over obstacles strewn along the destroyed main road, and they were stumbling over themselves and each other. Soon enough, they found their groove, and they were moving with enough speed. Slowly, Steve started leaning on Natasha more and more, as his uneven breaths grew into pained wheezes and strained gasps, as his blood and sweat mixed and bled into Natasha's clothing. But they kept moving, because they had to.

Soon enough, the dust and smoke and fire in the air started thinning out. Breathing became easier, and Natasha's eyesight slowly improved - not completely, but well enough to spot any danger or an oncoming attack. She could see everything almost clearly.

That part of the city must have been the site of the original attack. Fires had already been extinguished, and destroyed buildings had settled in piles of rubble and dust. The street was lined with debris and wreckages, the occasional dead body caught between piles of bricks, or stuck in the burnt remains of cars. The smell was vile: a mixture of decay and smoke that had had enough time to settle and embed itself in its surroundings. Natasha ignored it as best she could. Rays of light streamed through the slight haze in the air, informing Natasha that it was still daytime.

The relief she felt was breathtaking. They were away from the intense heat of the blazing fires, the blinding sting of the thick smoke, the heavy dust of recently destroyed infrastructure; they were returning to some sense of normality, a sense of familiarity. Natasha's knees grew weak momentarily as she took a shaky breath and smiled broadly. She steadied herself, though, almost immediately as Steve's dead weight on her shoulders threatened to down her.

"We're almost there, Steve, then you can sit." Natasha said, still all too aware of the annoying ringing in her ears. She was searching the streets frantically, trying desperately to find a building that was still semi-habitable. They needed cover.

"Almost where?" Steve asked, his speech slurring dangerously.

Natasha gulped, adjusting her grip on him. His head was resting against hers, and his body was so close to hers that she could feel the heat radiating off of him. "Shelter, Steve," Natasha replied, her brow gathering as she increased their pace despite Steve's low moan in protest.

In the distance, she spotted it: a house that was partially destroyed, but most of the face-brick walls were still standing, and a roof sat upon them. Outside, a pink bike lay on the ground - bent and broken. Natasha tried to suppress the rising images of a family: a mom, a dad, a daughter. She pictured them sitting outside on a sunny summer day - much like the kind of day it had been when this whole fuck-up began - the parents lazily reading magazines or newspapers as the young girl rode around the cul-de-sac on her new bicycle. She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to stay focused on her mission: get Steve to safety.

Natasha burst through the doors of the decrepit building - the only place she could reach for shelter while carrying Steve's dead weight on her shoulders. The room was small and dark; the brick walls had begun crumbling, and the roof was starting to dip. The concrete floor was littered in dust and rocks and bricks - and what appeared to be the stains of human excrement. Furniture littered the floor, destroyed by blasts and people looking for refuge. In there, the smell was even more vile: a pungent mixture of vomit and decay. Natasha shriveled her nose, suppressing the urge to gag; anything was favorable to being outside - no cover and a bleeding super soldier hanging onto her like she was his lifeline.

Steve had his arm draped around her slight shoulders, his hand gripping her arm so tightly that she was sure she would have bruises for weeks. He was trying to hold his weight as much as he could, but she bore most of it. He was hunched over, his head all but nestled in her neck. She could hear him wheezing, feel his hot, strained breath on her cheek.

She adjusted her grip as they stumbled into the room clumsily and the doors shut behind them with a bang. Steve almost pitched forward, and Natasha had to strain to keep them both up. He had at least a few inches and a hundred pounds on her, so holding his weight was difficult - never mind with her own injuries and fatigue.

"Steve," she grunted, her face going red with effort. Her hair stuck to her neck, pasted on by the thin sheen of sweat.

He groaned, his eyes narrow slits. He was losing a lot of blood, and it seemed he had a lot more broken bones than whole.

Natasha searched the room, her gaze darting from corner to corner, object to object. Finally, she found the tattered remains of a leather couch. Her heart pounded anxiously in her tight chest as she dragged Steve the last few feet and deposited him on the couch, almost collapsing on top of him as his weight pulled her down. She wriggled out of his grip and stumbled back, wheezing breathlessly. She allowed herself a moment to catch her breath as she stepped to the side and leaned against the windowsill. Most of the glass in the window was broken or missing. She glanced outside, squinting, but saw no signs of iron-suited men or panicked civilians. In the distance she could see open land - green and peaceful, but quickly being destroyed by a raging fire. She bit her lip, tasting blood and sweat, but not caring.

She turned back to Steve and took a deep, calming breath. "Okay," she whispered to herself as she headed towards him.

He was lying across the couch, his head resting at an awkward angle against the ripped arm, his right arm cradling his injured shoulder. His body was curled in on himself as though straightening was too painful. Natasha frowned, her eyes still stinging but her vision far clearer. She slowly knelt beside him. She placed a sweaty hand on his bloodied forehead, and tried not to react as he flinched before opening his eyes and realizing it was her.

"Steve, you're going to have to lie flat," she whispered. She gently cradled his head as he slowly rolled onto his back, barely suppressing an agonized whimper. She glanced at his ear, looking for his earpiece; it was gone. They were stranded God-knows-where without any way of contacting the others.

Once he was flat on the couch, and the sound of explosions and gunfire was only a distant, annoying buzz that barely penetrated through the now dull ringing in Natasha's ear, she pulled off her gloves and settled on the ground so that she was close enough to get a good look at his wounds.

She started at his shoulder, forcing herself to focus on one injury at a time so as not to overwhelm herself, and to give each one the attention it deserved. She snorted an sarcastic laugh: she couldn't help him, anyway. They had no supplies, no way to communicate with anyone... they were fucked.

His shoulder was a mess; the gaping holes on either side of his body had stopped bleeding, but dirt and rocks littered the wounds. She slowly lifted the fabric, wincing as it ripped away from drying blood and Steve's body went rigid. His breathing was erratic, punctured with strained wheezes. She could hardly hear them, but they were there. She ripped the already destroyed uniform so that it fell away from his upper body, exposing his injuries.

Her eyes widened and she swore under her breath as the true extent of his wounds became clear. The skin around his shoulder was covered in dark blue and black bruises, the bones beneath horribly deformed. The appearance was grotesque, making Natasha feel sick - though, that could also have been from hunger, exhaustion, and a possible concussion. His chest was bruised black and blue, misshapen in some spots and inflamed in others. His stomach was a mess of angry scorch marks and blisters, weeping and oozing blood. But, the worst of the injuries was a gaping hole in his left flank. It was bleeding so fast that a pool of blood had already started collecting in the crevices on the couch. Natasha stared at it for a long time, blinking slowly, dumbfounded.

"Uh," she said out loud, accidentally. She hadn't realized she had made any sound at all - her ringing ears a nuisance.

Steve's eyes fluttered open and he looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot and welling with tears - though whether it was from fever or pain, she wasn't sure. Natasha looked down at herself again, suddenly realizing where all of the blood had come from. She nibbled her bottom lip in deep thought; even with the super serum, Steve would be dead within the next few hours if they couldn't get help soon. She didn't know much about the serum, but she figured that a bunch of burns, a gunshot wound, and a bunch of broken ribs - if Steve's strained breathing and the ugly bruising on his chest was anything to go by - put a lot of pressure on the serum. And, with a germ-riddled, dirty environment that reeked of infection at every corner, it didn't give the serum much of a fighting chance.

She felt Steve's eyes on her, felt him watching her, but she couldn't look up; she couldn't pretend that everything was going to be okay when she couldn't guarantee that it would. She purposefully turned her head away, staring at a spot on the floor, focusing on everything and nothing at the same time.

She felt a warm, strong hand rest on her shoulder. She ignored it, wanting - desperately needing - a moment to collect her thoughts. She was tired; a day of fighting in conditions harsher than most would every experience was finally taking its toll on her. Her adrenaline was dwindling fast, and she was starting to get the tremors and heart palpitations associated with the come down.

"Nat?" The voice was unrecognizable. It was croaky and barely above a whisper. It was Steve, but ... not.

She turned and her eyes finally met his. His were hazy, confused, unfocused, but surprisingly calm; hers were swimming with a million different thoughts and emotions. She wasn't sure what she thought, what she felt, what she should do. She was helpless and she fucking hated it.

"Yeah?" She whispered. The ringing in her ears was still there, but she hardly noticed it anymore.

"There's something in my stomach," he said, and he frowned. He let his hand fall from her shoulder and he pushed himself into a semi-upright position, his back resting against the arm of the chair. His hand gripped the cushions of the couch like it was his only lifeline. He threw his head back, breathing through gritted teeth until the wave of nausea and pain passed. Once he regained his breath, he said, "I need you to get it out."

"What do you mean?" Natasha asked, but her gaze immediately dropped to the gaping, bleeding hole in his stomach.

Steve grunted, shifting haltingly in discomfort. His neck was still arched back and his eyes were squeezed shut. "I ... I can feel it. I don't know what it is, b - but it's in there. Take it out."

Natasha shook her head, smiling ironically. "What the fuck, Cap?" She exclaimed, gripping his arm in her one hand and the couch with her other.

"Nat," Steve replied shakily, gathering the strength from somewhere to look at her, "you need to get it out. R - removing the object will give the serum a head start. Then we, uh, we put pressure on it and stop the bleeding."

He was saying it like he was recalling it exactly as it had been said to him. Natasha shuddered as she imagined one of the doctors during the War saying those words to him as he or she cut through his skin and tore him apart just to put him back together again. She imagined him trying not to scream on the operating table or out in the trenches, trembling and close to losing consciousness.

Natasha nodded, but said nothing. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and counted to ten. "Okay," she whispered as she slowly adjusted her position, ignoring her own aches and pains. She pulled a knife out of a holster in her belt and fiddled with it nervously. It was small: enough to injure a man, enough to kill a man, but not enough to break through iron. She readied herself, and she saw Steve do the same out of the corner of her eye; he was so tense that every vein in his body bulged, and his neck pulsed. His useless left arm lay parallel to his body on the couch.

She gently lay a hand on his chest, resisting the urge to flinch as she felt broken and shattered bones shift and crack with the uneven rise and fall of Steve's damaged chest. He relaxed a little under her touch. Together, they managed to get Steve to a flat position. He almost passed out during the lengthy process, and Natasha found herself disappointed when he didn't; she would rather he be unconscious during the painful procedure she was about to perform.

"Don't scream," she whispered, moving her hand slowly down his chest and stomach until it was framing the inflamed wound.

"I won't." Steve muttered.

She plunged the knife into the wound, and Steve immediately jerked, barely suppressing an agonized yell. "Sorry," she whispered, but she didn't stop. She dug around the wound until the knife hit something foreign and hard. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and Steve twitched under her touch. He was trembling, and when Natasha risked a glance at his face, she found tear marks tracking down his temples and into his hair. She shook her head, wishing she could take the pain away.

"This is going to hurt," she said softly, but she didn't give him time to reply before she stuck her fingers in the wound and dug deeper, following the path of the knife. Steve whimpered and his right hand gripped the couch so tightly that the leather ripped, and the springs groaned under his trembling form. Finally, she found it: something long and metal. She counted to three and slowly pulled it out. Thankfully, Steve lost consciousness halfway through the process and his limp form was easier to work on.

When her hand finally emerged from the wound, Natasha pulled out the knife. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest and there was a lump in her throat that refused to go away no matter how many times she tried to swallow it down. She got her first proper look at the foreign object as it slowly trailed out of Steve's body; it was a metal pole - about three inches long, and half an inch in diameter. She figured it had come from one of the concrete blocks that had collapsed on them after they crashed into the wall after the blast. When it was completely out, she exhaled in relief and fell back onto her haunches, laughing hysterically.

She dropped the metal pole, watching it as it hit the floor with a small clank. She stared for a long time at it, looking at the blood coating it and fitting the floor around it. She was lost, lost in thoughts of being somewhere else... anywhere else. "Shit, Rogers," she teased, smiling but not breaking her gaze, "do you want to keep some of your blood inside your body?" She gulped, nibbled her bottom lip, tried a half-hearted attempt at a laugh when she realized he was still unconscious.

She wasn't sure how long she sat beside Steve, watching him, pressing down on the wound in his stomach. His face screwed up in agony felt even in the depths of unconsciousness. With nothing but the ringing in her ears to keep her company, Natasha started thinking: how _the fuck_ were they supposed to get out of there? When the bleeding stopped, Natasha fell back and stared at Steve. She watched the uneven, painful ride and fall of his chest; she let her gaze sweep over the swollen mess of his face; she purposefully avoided looking at the angry wounds in his shoulder and stomach.

Suddenly, the door behind Natasha exploded, and splinters erupted in the air. She scrambled to her feet, picking up the knife from where she had discarded it on the floor, and faced the doorway. She made herself as big as she could in an effort to protect Steve as she steadied herself for the invoking fight. She heard metal footsteps near her, tried to make out the looming figure in the dust. She gulped, nervous. When she finally saw who it was, she dropped her hands and sighed in relief as she collapsed to her knees and threw her head back. Smiling, she looked back at the figure in the doorway and said, "About damn time, Stark."

Tony's face mask lifted and exposed his bruised face. He smiled - that cocky, reassuring grin - and said, "Can't take you two anywhere."

Natasha smiled, turning back to Steve. She heard Tony approach and he knelt beside her. She glanced at him, catching the shocked expression on his face. He frowned, clearly panicked as he hesitantly reached for Steve. His gaze slowly swept over Steve's limp body, from the wound in his stomach, to the mess of his chest, to his deformed shoulder.

"Fuck," Tony mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned to Natasha and made a weak attempt at a smile. "Thank God I knew this idiot would get himself into this mess."

"What?" Natasha asked, her mind sluggish and her thoughts disjointed.

"Med-evac is on the way."


End file.
